


...In The Oddest of Places

by Undercover_Royalty



Category: Marvel Cinemactic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming
Genre: #stopkillingMay2k18, Aunt May loves her disaster nephew, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, Bucky is so done with Steve’s BS, Dumm-e and the bots are v sweet, F/M, Fevered delusions, Fluff, Gen, Karen is v done, Most chapters take place before IW, Panic Attacks, Peter is v tired, Post- Civil War, Precious Peter Parker, Slice of Life, Some angst, THAT SCENE, Tony Stark vs wedding plans, Tony Stark’s Awkward Mentoring, Tony is Awkward (but he’s trying), Total Fluff, Tried to throw in a Clint reference, Unhealthy Sleeping Habits, bc tell me that wouldn’t be precious, clingy peter, depends on the chapter, pre-Civil War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-02-07 00:29:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12829422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Undercover_Royalty/pseuds/Undercover_Royalty
Summary: Alternatively: Peter Sleeps Everywhere (except in an actual bed).(Latest chapter: In the Compound.Peter is sick and needs to find Tony)





	1. On The Ceiling

Okay. 

So.

Patrol had been long that night. Or make that every night this week. 

For whatever reason, the third week of August had New York up in arms, and as one of its resident heroes, of course it was Pete—ahem, Spider-Man’s—job to keep everybody in line. So, off he went, saving people, breaking hearts… or… some variation thereof. 

Tonight’s highlights included webbing up a stolen ice cream truck, corralling a gaggle of angry geese in Brookville Park and totally humiliating a couple of harassers lurking outside a nightclub (he may or may not have strung them up by their underwear). Oh, and then when he was about to get home, he noticed a broken flower-box dangling treacherously from an apartment window and decided that a small act of kindness wouldn’t go amiss. 

Needless to say, come four a.m and Peter was officially exhausted. He’d attempted to swing the remaining ten blocks home, but gave up around three later when he narrowly missed crashing into a fire escape. Climbing down to the street below, Peter began the slow trek home, trying to ignore the warning vitals Karen was flashing at him in increasingly obnoxious fonts. 

‘I can call someone to pick you up, Peter.’ she reminded him. 

“‘S not that far, though.” Peter dissuaded, leaning up against a pole for the crosswalk. 

‘Your brain activity suggests an ongoing lack of sufficient rest. Common side-effects include a lack of focus, increasing your risk of injury.’ 

His eyes were fixated on the flashing OPEN sign across the street. 

“Cool.”

Red-Blue-Red-Blue-Red and Blue—

“The light is green.’ Karen broke in

“M’kay.” 

To the five or six pedestrians Peter passed, he must have looked like a drunk cosplayer. He tried to keep in a straight line at first, but then realized that trying made it worse and it was more fun taking up the whole sidewalk anyways. 

“Hey Karen, think my spider-sense will lemme walk backwards?” 

‘Don’t.’ 

(Turned out that his “spider-sense” didn’t warn him about trash cans). 

So, tired, sweaty and smelling slightly of rotten fish, Peter finally arrived at his apartment building. He slowly trudged toward the entrance, hands searching for something in non-existent pockets. 

“Karen, where’s my key?” 

‘Going that way would compromise your identity.’ 

“Oh, yeah…” Peter remembered, catching sight of himself in the glass, “…whoops.” 

‘A scan of the building indicates that your bedroom window is open.’ 

“Awesome.” Peter replied. 

He walked around the side of the building, paused and looked to the welcoming light of his bedroom window— seven floors up. 

“Sooo…” he trailed off, placing a hand then a foot on the brick, “Here we go, I guess.” 

‘I guess.’ Karen echoed, though she didn’t sound as optimistic. 

It’s funny how once you start climbing a building all of the lit windows start to look the same. Peter accidentally peered into a couple rooms that were definitely not his, slipped a little down the wall and finally, with a last pull of effort, found himself looking into his bedroom. As per usual, the teen went above his window and pushed the pane down, cautiously crawling onto the ceiling and closing it with his foot. 

The rest of the process was simple:  
-Shut the door  
-Climb down  
-Take off the suit  
-Go to sleep

And yet, there Peter stayed, on the ceiling. In the soft light of his own bedroom, it was getting hard to keep his eyes open. And doing all of those things both sounded and felt like too much effort. Hanging was comfortable…ish. Comfortable enough. So, Peter pressed his hands flat to the plaster and let himself hang upside-down as he closed his eyes. 

“Okay, g’night Karen.” he mumbled. 

Briefly, he wondered if the faint, crackling static he got in reply was Karen’s attempt at a sigh. Outside, his corner of “The City That Never Sleeps” rattled on, now the slightest bit safer. Inside, the resident hero of Queens let his head fall back and finally slept…. for about three hours. 

(On the bright side, Aunt May’s scream worked way better than his alarm clock).


	2. In Tony’s lab (with the bots)

Tony Stark’s lab was officially the coolest place on Earth. 

Ned had tried to argue that Disney World should be taken into account, but to Peter, who had never been to Florida, there was no contest. You just didn’t compare amusement parks to Tony Stark’s lab. In ways, Tony’s lab actually was an amusement park— provided you didn’t mind the mess or AC/DC blasting three times too loud. 

So, all of those things taken into account, he should absolutely not be this exhausted. 

Peter sighed, looking up from his mask and his attempts to repair the expressive eyes. He’d known this would probably happen. But May’s anxiety had been acting up last night, and he wasn’t exactly the poster child of perfect sleeping habits either. They’d ended up watching some rehashed Hallmark movie and eating cookie dough straight off the roll. Then, when she’d fallen asleep, he’d searched up part-time jobs in the area. Sure, Spider-Man saved the citizens of Queens, but May was his world. 

That taken into account and not even his suit repairs could keep his interest. Peter sighed and rested his head in his palm, giving himself a fifteen-second reprieve. 

The absolute last thing he expected was for one of the Iron Man gauntlets to fire as the stereo cut out with a crash. 

Peter jolted up, the back of his neck prickling, and spun in his seat. Across the lab, in the designated “testing facility” (a cleared out and very damaged corner of the garage), Tony Stark was fanning smoke from his face, grimacing as his gauntlet detached and hovered around his head like an overly-attentive relative. Peter watched as DUMM-E cautiously wheeled over, dragging the fire extinguisher. 

“I’m good,” the inventor placated, gently batting the gauntlet away, and motioning for DUMM-E to turn around, “Call off the cavalry, it’s okay.” 

He looked up, and in a moment of clarity, Peter realized their eyes had met. 

“Hey, kid, be honest with me,” Tony broke the silence, crossing over and snapping for the gauntlet to come back, “should I or should I not get this thing to shoot champagne? Y’know, for the wedding reception? Pepper says it’s tacky, but I’m thinking it can be done in a... tasteful sort of way.” 

Personally, Peter didn’t know exactly how shooting streams of (probably expensive) champagne into the air could ever be considered classy or even reasonable to want to do. Something told him that maybe Tony hadn’t been sleeping well recently, either. 

“Well, I dunno if the concentration of ethanol would corrode the titanium alloy you’re using,” Peter replied, “and also, Happy told me you’re... cutting back on the drinking... stuff.” 

“Fair.” Tony agreed, “God, Happy gossips like a freshman in high school— no offense.”

Peter thought of reminding his mentor that he was almost a junior, but then decided that life was too short. Besides, within the next two seconds, the billionaire’s phone went off, and he answered, half-leaning against Peter’s workspace. 

“Hey, honey.” 

Oh God. Not that Peter didn’t like Pepper— she was always friendly to him, and he knew her intelligence and drive went nearly unmatched in the corporate world— but at this point in time, there was only one reason she’d be calling. 

Wedding plans. 

“Chiffon? What even— I thought we said sponge cake as a base?” 

Peter sighed and put his head in his arms. These conversations always took a while. 

“—That’s not.. Pep, honey— I thought chiffon was a fabric, okay? Just.. just gimme a second, I’m coming up.” Tony placated. 

There was a pause, before Peter felt his skin prickle as Tony reached down and— ruffled his hair? 

“Hold down the fort, kid.” he instructed, brusquely, already walking with the door locking behind him. Peter sat up again, blinking in confusion. 

“Um... o-kay.” he replied, one hand subconsciously fixing his hair. 

Again, Peter refocused on his mask, but just as he’d made sense of the wiring, he heard a slightly distressed whirring coming from somewhere back in the lab. Shaking the omnipotent drowsiness away, Peter stood up and ducked between prototypes and half-baked ideas until he came upon DUMM-E, visibly fretting. The hose of its fire extinguisher had gotten caught in one of the sizable cracks in the cement floor, and now the bot was attempting to free it with nothing but a single arm and unwavering determination. 

“Hey, hey,” Peter broke in with a wave, kneeling down, “lemme help you there, buddy.” 

DUMM-E stopped as Peter reached down, took the hose and gave a short tug, pulling it loose. He offered the freed item back to its owner, who chirped happily and wheeled forward, nearly tackling the boy with gratitude. 

“It’s no problem.” Peter replied, smiling at its wordless, yet exuberant response, “That’s what I’m here for. Sort of.” 

He stood, rolled his shoulders and stifled a yawn. Back to work. 

However, just as Peter turned, he felt a claw-like appendage grab hold of his shirt. 

“Sorry, but I don’t have time to play, bud.” Peter explained, looking back to the bot, “Let go, okay?” 

DUMM-E did not, in fact, let go. Instead, it chirped even more defiantly, attempting to tug him backwards. He let it, for the most part— after all, if he didn’t, he actually stood a chance of breaking the poor thing.

(And also, he might possibly be too tired to really care where he was going). 

After about twelve steps backwards, Peter finally turned and got an idea of where he was being led. 

“Aw, thanks.” he smiled as he was nudged up against a worn leather couch, nearly hidden in the back of the lab, “I’m okay, but that’s nice of you.” 

He attempted to side-step the bot, but was startled to find his exit blocked from both sides. U and Butterfingers had rolled over to join the party, and now all three were gently nudging at him, almost encouraging him to lay down. 

And, well... if they insisted, maybe a minute or two couldn’t hurt. 

Carefully, Peter eased onto the soft, torn cushions, curling onto his side. Up close, they had their fair share of sawdust, and actually smelled slightly like hard liquor, but by then he’d sort of sunk into them, and was kind of—definitely—too comfortable to move. 

Peter felt a thin throw-blanket drape over his shoulders. Then, he noticed each bot emitting a soothing whirr around the sofa, like white noise. No wonder Tony was so fond of them. As Peter tugged the blanket around his shoulders, one of the bots clumsily mimicked Tony’s actions from earlier, attempting to ruffle his hair. He smiled, half-asleep and falling fast. 

The bots gladly watched over their new friend until their creator’s return. Maybe next time, he’d stay for a game of fetch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by a comment from Spiderlingsfave— thanks for the adorable suggestion!  
> Still having fun with this, even though school is close to starting back, eww.  
> Suggestions are always welcome! Thanks for reading!


	3. In the Air Ducts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a comment from WingsWithoutStrings. Thank you for the adorable prompt!

At fifteen years old, Peter decided, life was just inherently unfair. 

He was on the cusp of driving, of being an upperclassman and entering the workforce... but wasn’t there just yet. That was one of the many reasons he loved being Spider-Man. The name said it all! Everybody treated him like an adult because they didn’t know if he was or not. 

...Well, okay, that Aaron Davis guy had guessed, but still! Most people didn’t! 

As Spider-Man, for all New York knew, Peter was a calm, collected, mature keeper of the peace— except when the Avengers were around. Granted, there weren’t too many of them around these days, but both Vision and Rhodes found out pretty quickly that Peter was a bit outside the suggested age-range for superheroes. Apparently he wasn’t quite as good at acting collected standing in a room with actual Avengers. 

Naturally, once Colonel Rhodes had a good long talk with Tony— Peter had wandered by and made out a few curses—even more guidelines were put into place. Most of it was training, which Peter didn’t mind; it seemed like these guys really wanted him ready for anything. He alternated between sessions with Vision and Tony every other weekend. No, the training wasn’t the bad part. It was the briefings that literally drove him up the walls. 

Whenever a situation requiring the Avengers’ attention popped up, anybody around went inside a meeting room to hash out the situation— except Peter. Apparently, he was too young to hear about what went on out there. Apparently, he was too young to have a say in whether he was needed or not. He couldn’t even argue that it was lawfully unfair! Because he hadn’t officially signed the Accords he was considered an “asset to the team”— only when and if they needed him. 

True, Peter wasn’t an Avenger, and had decided he didn’t exactly want to be (yet). But when people could be in danger and he knew about it, the last thing he wanted was to stand by! He knew Tony cut back on inviting him to the compound for that very reason, but these meetings were unscheduled and there was always a chance of one being called with Peter present. 

Today, as it happened, was one of those days. 

‘All active Avengers report to the East Wing.’ Friday instructed over the intercom, ‘Incoming call from General Ross.’ 

Peter looked up from his newest suit modification— programming Karen with a ‘battle playlist’— and observed as Rhodes and Vision rose collectively to head for the door. He could sense exasperation and curiosity in the air; General Ross didn’t call often these days and his conversation topics seemed to be a gamble. But he wouldn’t call for no reason, right? There could always be some kind of mission. So, Peter stood with them, even if he suspected it wouldn’t be for long. This time, he was caught before he even reached the door. 

“Hold it, Arachnid-Kid,” Tony warned, “This is big-kid stuff- go on back to your homework.” 

Peter bit back a sharp retort— he never was quite as confident without his mask— and sighed as his mentor reluctantly trudged down the hall to the spacious elevator at the far end. He caught Vision’s prying gaze before the doors closed and he was left well and truly alone. 

With no ability to focus now, Peter shoved his books away and began to pace the room in a circle, moving up the opposite wall and across the ceiling before walking down the left side. People could absolutely be in danger right now— what was he doing here, treated like a child? He was Spider-Man, he didn’t need briefings, or backup, or—!

Oh. 

There was an idea. 

Tony couldn’t be mad at Peter for joining them if he got to their target location first. Peter grinned, quickly shimmying out of his jeans and top, exposing the suit he wore beneath. Quickly, Peter reconnected and covered the wiring in his mask before pulling it on. He’d already begun to climb up the wall by the time it came online. 

“Hey Karen, can you pull up an exterior map of the compound, please?” 

‘Sure thing.’ Karen replied, ‘Although, I feel I should mention that the skylight has been blocked off.’ 

“What?” Peter startled, “Why?” 

‘Perhaps you’re not quite as stealthy as you think you are.’ his AI suggested. 

The teen sighed, climbing back down the wall. So he’d finally been caught. Maybe that web hammock last time had been a bad idea. 

“Then, what do I do?” 

‘The most practical recommendation would be to wait and see if the Avengers require your help— but you’re not going to do that.’ 

Peter grinned, slightly bashful. 

“Nope. Any other suggestions?” 

‘The compound does have a rather extensive air duct system.’ 

“Oh, good idea. Help me navigate?” 

‘Creating optimum route.’ 

As Karen loaded an easy-to-follow map, Peter leapt up the wall again, eyes on a large air vent towards the top. He reached it quickly and curled his fingers around the grate. It popped off with relative ease, and the teen slid it down the wall, ducking through the opening and crawling carefully into the ducts.

“Oh, wow,” Peter commented, awkwardly scooting forward, “I kinda... I can’t really see anything. Like, at all.” 

‘Would you like me to activate night-vision?’ 

“Wha—yes! 

‘Activating: night-vision.’ 

Peter continued to move forward, feeling a little less superhero, and a little more James Bond. But... wait... James Bond was a superhero too, in his own way. Sort of? Maybe? Whatever— the point was, he felt kinda badass, absently humming the Mission: Impossible theme under his breath. 

‘Turn left here.’ 

As he got closer, Peter began to notice another thing about the ducts— they were really warm. It made sense that a large compound would need a lot of heat in the wintertime, and yet, it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was certainly better in here than crawling on the roof, where there was nothing to slow the roaring, freezing winds that somehow managed to chill him through the suit. 

‘I would advise slowing momentum here, Peter. You wouldn’t want them to hear you.’ 

The more time they spent together, the more convinced Peter became that Karen was really starting to get him. 

He followed her advice, slowing and quieting as he heard voices in the distance. As he rounded a final corner, he caught sight of what looked like Vision and Tony below, engaged in a discussion. Finally! Excited, Peter tried to get a better view before— wait, was he crawling on something? 

Glancing down, sure enough, a soft gray quilt lay bunched up under him. Curiously, the teen leaned down to examine it. Even through his gloves he could tell it was handmade, the stitch-work passable but not exactly precise. What was it doing here? Peter felt around him a bit more, as if that would offer an explanation. Within seconds, he brushed back against a gathering of pillows, tucked along the wall. 

He couldn’t ask Karen why all this was here— Tony may be getting older but at this proximity he’d hear him, for sure. Besides, he doubted the AI would know exactly what a handmade blanket was doing laying in an air duct. That aside, it really was pretty comfortable. He slowly lay down over it, scooting forward to look through the grate. After a moment of hesitation, Peter took one of the pillows from the wall, crossed his arms overtop it and rested his chin on his wrists as he self-activated ‘Enhanced Reconnaissance Mode’. He’d only stay here a minute, just until he could figure out where to go. 

But… wait. Nobody seemed particularly stressed out. In fact, even Vision actually sounded bored. Once Peter heard him mention ‘a slight amendment to section 13-B’, he slammed his head against the pillow. The meeting was only politics— and not even the interesting issues, like MJ liked to talk about. This was just boring old semantics with the Accords. Ugh. 

‘Thank God I’m not an Avenger.’ Peter thought, as he listened to Rhodes butt in about the precise wording of a passage about international news coverage. How did they stand it? Knowing they could be out there actually making a difference, but being forced to sit and argue over legislative word choices instead? It felt exhausting, mentally and physically. Peter blinked slowly, the discussion fading out as he lost interest. 

Strangely, it was like the blanket he lay on was fashioned to be perfectly bunched up in this air duct. It curled in like a nest, folded along the edges, back where the cushion of pillows rested. As Peter stretched out, turning to rest his cheek on the borrowed pillow, he decided whoever made all this probably knew how to make some awesome blanket forts. Maybe he could ask them for tips sometime- after eight years, he and Ned were still trying to up their game. He fished out his phone, hazily thinking of messaging his best friend about what he was missing out on, but decided halfway that it was too much effort. 

Peter honestly hadn’t been this warm in a long time, and felt incredibly secure in the closed-off space. Nobody could bother him here, no bullies, no super-villains, nobody. Up here, he could completely let his guard down, be ordinary Peter Parker again, just for a little while. 

The strength of that sentiment had him asleep in seconds, dreamless and perfectly content.


	4. In The Hotel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the airport battle, Peter has some trouble getting to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it’s been a while!  
> Firstly, a big thank-you to Tom Holland for (unknowingly) inspiring this little chapter! Those selfies... good gracious.  
> Anyways, this takes place before Chapters 2 and 3, though of course neither are necessary to understand what’s happening.  
> Hopefully I can start getting back into the swing of things, and as always, I love suggestions for new chapters!  
> Thanks, everyone!

Oh man, oh man, oh man, Peter definitely couldn’t sleep. 

It wasn’t like it was his fault though— he was blameless in this predicament! If anyone was to be blamed it was probably that winged guy. Or the dude with the crazy metal arm! How did their tech work? Had they designed it? Had Mr. Stark helped them like he’d helped him? Just... there were so many questions and not enough answers and Happy had yelled at him the last time he’d tried to go over and ask. It was probably best not to try that again. 

Peter sighed and rolled out of bed, stumbling up as his foot snagged in the duvet. He walked over to stare out the hotel room window. He’d never been so far from home before. It was strange to look out the window, to see a sprawling city below and realize exactly how far away he was. He stifled a yawn, the glow of the street lamps going blurry. This whole trip was entirely surreal. 

Peter collapsed back onto his bed, scooting and twisting in a half-hearted effort to get back under the covers. He could stand them for about five minutes before they got too hot, then he’d move to the duvet and quickly deem it too cold. This, the cycle repeated itself. On his third go-around, Peter finally threw out an arm, patting around on the dresser for his phone. He pulled it towards him, then rolled over to unlock it, fingers sliding across a frigid screen. 

For a bit, he watched the film he’d taken, unable to hide a grin at his new suit. He really was Spider-Man, now. Maybe Mr. Stark would even make him an Avenger! He was going to ask about that later, anyways— assuming he’d see him. Mr. Stark had taken off in kind of a hurry earlier that day, and Peter had later overheard Happy saying something about an ambulance. He hoped everybody was alright. 

As he watched through the battle footage, Peter suddenly realized that a plethora of message notifications waited, unread. He quickly switched gears, reading through what he had missed. Most of them were from Ned, pestering him for details about the supposed “Stark Internship Retreat”. His questions ranged from the inane: “Are Pepper Potts’ eyes green or blue? I can never remember.’ to the outright bizarre: “Mom swears she saw a magazine cover of Tony Stark riding on an elephant one time. Are there elephants where you are?” 

Other texts were from May. She’d gone to buy him a new backpack and sent pictures for him to make a decision. In the end, she’d texted saying she’d bought the first one and not to worry about it. She’d asked him to call her too, but— Peter did some quick mental math— it had to be around six in the morning, her time, and he didn’t want to wake her. At least one of them should be able to sleep that night. 

For a while, he surfed through some other apps, watching himself on YouTube, checking New York news outlets— some startup, The Daily Bugle had recently taken to attacking Spider-Man’s character— and even, after ensuring he was alone, taking a few selfies. They weren’t bad, per say, but Peter still knew he would never, ever post them on the Instagram he’d gotten just for the sake of having one. He’d just thought he’d looked... good. A little roguish maybe, from the black eye he was getting. 

Yikes. 

Half an hour later and Peter felt like he’d tried everything. He’d flipped over about a hundred times, stared at the ceiling, quietly recited pi until he couldn’t remember any more digits, even counted sheep for crying out loud! He guessed he was still hopped-up on adrenaline. It was hard not to be after fighting Captain freaking America! And okay, he’d kinda lost but he’d also gotten to take his shield, all until that tiny guy blew up and kicked him in the jaw. If he hadn’t done that... yeah, if he hadn’t, Peter could’ve won. 

Maybe. 

But thinking about that now was counter-productive. Sleeping was, as Happy had put it, his ‘main priority’. Peter briefly wondered if going for a short run to tire himself was a good idea, then realized he didn’t know if that was even allowed. He knew after a while some hotels locked the front doors. Peter certainly didn’t want to be caught trying to crawl through his hotel room window. 

So, he just lay there. At one point, he found the energy to get up and grab a piece of notebook paper from his bag. Enthused, he scrawled ‘I am Spider-Man’ in blocky capital letters. It was oddly satisfying to see the words there, manifest, impossible to be ignored. And yet, they also seemed to be not entirely there. They sort of... moved. 

Peter blinked, and suddenly saw the beginnings of a paper airplane. He stared at the folded creases, at the new positions of his hands. When had that happened? Confusedly, he finished what he’d evidently started and tossed the new creation into the air. It did a single loop, then nosedived into an armchair across the room. He crossed to get it, clumsily picking it up only to discover he didn’t really want it at all. Peter sank into the chair with a sigh. 

Should he tell someone about what had happened? Now, sitting here in the dark, it almost felt like too much to keep to himself. But telling someone what he’d done meant telling someone who he was, and Peter didn’t feel quite comfortable with that yet. He didn’t want to do that to May. He knew if she found out about what he could do, the patrols he took every night, she’d loose it. Worse than the inevitable lifelong grounding he’d get would be knowing that he’d broken her heart. He’d already cost her the love of her life. The last thing Peter needed was to hurt her further. 

So, that left only one option. Much as Peter loved Ned, he knew that his best friend was a bit of a blabber-mouth. He was one of those excited talkers, somebody who could never convincingly tell a lie. Of course, Peter trusted Ned implicitly, but telling him about this trip posed risks. And yet... laying here, with everything bottled up seemed infinitely worse. Maybe he didn’t have to tell Ned the whole truth. Just bits and pieces. Pretend he saw the battle from afar, that Spider-Man had been there and it was totally amazing and wow wasn’t he so cool? He’d have to be careful, make sure he didn’t misspeak, but man, it sounded worth it. 

So, fumbling for his phone again, Peter clicked his friend’s contact and pressed the phone to his ear. He leaned back in the chair as it rang, eyes falling shut as his excitement waned, replaced with a sort of zen feeling. 

Ned, when he picked up, sounded almost anything but zen. 

“Dude, it’s six in the morning, what do you want?” 

“Hey, Ned,” Peter replied, “I’ve gotta tell you something, okay?” 

There was a bit of a pause. Peter tucked his head against the upholstered chair back. He could still see the sky. 

“Uh... okay. Are you alright, man? You sound kinda weird.” 

“Yeah, ‘m okay.” Peter returned, “Guess who I saw.” 

“Who?” 

”Guess, Ned.” 

Ned began listing names, mostly tech billionaires like Mr. Stark and their entourages. Peter remained quiet, becoming more relaxed as his friend grew steadily more agitated, finally going down a roster of superheroes. 

“Not Thor, not Hulk— I dunno, Spider-Man?” 

“Yuuup.” Peter finally replied, before the phone slipped from his hand and he fell dead asleep in the armchair, moonlight cutting a swath across his face.


	5. On Titan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> !!SPOILERS FOR INFINITY WAR!!
> 
> "Peter didn't know what happened to murderers when they died."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I have been quietly grieving over this movie for almost a week. That sweet, precious boy didn't deserve anything he got. 
> 
> Despite this, I've seen it twice and am about to go with a friend who hasn't tomorrow (instead of studying for my exams, haha!). 
> 
> Be warned for angst and spoilers! Hope you all... appreciate this, I suppose? "Enjoy" isn't a very good word, after all. Even so, thank you for reading!

Peter had barely gotten back on his feet, bruised and bloodied, when he started to feel tired. It wasn’t the pleasant kind of tired either, the kind when the day was long, but underneath everything lay a deep inner peace. No, this was the kind of tired you got right before a cold, the kind of tired with body aches, chills and a barely-there fever. Peter blinked and shook his head. His heart was pounding— he’s got the Time Stone, he’s got the Time Stone, we lost, we lost. He’d been so close, too, the gauntlet giving in his hand, only to be ripped away. But he couldn’t blame that Star Lord guy for lashing out about his “Gamora”. 

Peter knew how it felt to grieve. 

“Kid?” 

To feel skinned and exposed, awash in pain, and then to feel nothing at all. To feel like if you’d only done something different, they’d still be with you. 

Peter felt a hand on his shoulder, jarring him out of his thoughts as he looked up to the wizard, Strange, staring at him quizzically. 

“We’ve got to move, Spider-Man.” he says, in a sort-of friendly way. 

By this point, Peter took whatever he could get. 

“Okay.” he replied, quietly, looking around for Mr. Stark. 

Peter was unashamed to admit that up here, on this alien wasteland, his mentor was the only person he trusted intrinsically. So, when the teenager saw Strange go to support him off the field, he quickly made his way over to stand near his left side, trying to get a look at his wound. It was already covered in gauze— something Peter himself had developed from his webbing formula— so that should at least keep it together until they could get home. 

Oh, home. Peter didn’t know if he’d ever wanted anything so badly. He stumbled a little over a rocky area, thinking longingly of May and their movie nights, singing eighties hits as they washed the dishes and ate cookie dough straight off the roll. He thought about Ned, the best guy in the chair anybody could ever ask for, always there with a pun and a backup plan in case of emergency. He thought about MJ and the ‘Baby Got Books’ coffee mug he’d given her for her birthday. He especially thought about the little smile she’d tried to hide when she unwrapped it; how it made him so acutely aware of his own heartbeat. 

Peter knew he’d fight Thanos a thousand times over to keep the ones he loved safe. He wouldn't give up. He already couldn’t wait to get home to them.

‘ _Danger._ ’ 

Peter jolted up, his thought coming unprompted. He bristled with chills— ‘ _danger-danger-danger_ ’— but from where? From what? 

“Mantis?” 

Peter looked back towards the Guardians, back towards the alien lady he’d once thought would kill him Xenomorph-style. She was slowing down, a new kind of realization in her large, dark eyes. 

“Something is... happening...” she spoke, slowly. 

Like magnets, Peter’s eyes went down, down until they met the wall of grey rushing up her front, crawling like some living thing, up over clothing and skin alike, through her hair and over her face, until what once was a living person simply morphed into dust. 

Peter took a sharp breath in, as the back of his neck prickled with a horrible combination of fear and heat. Star Lord looked about how Peter felt, hands pulling away as he tried to make sense of what he’d seen. Everyone had mere seconds to process whatever had just happened before another voice came in, the alien man taking a fumbling step forward. 

“Quill?” he asked, and to a silent, collective horror, simply blew away in the wind, body tearing apart into a wave of ashes. 

There was a silence; shell-shocked couldn't even encompass it. Star Lord took a few shaky breaths in and out, whirled around to Tony and Strange. Peter saw Tony hold up a hand, placatingly, before the teen stumbled back a step and put a hand to his head. Everything felt like it was in high-definition; his heart hadn’t stopped pounding, and now showed no sign of slowing down. His eyes came back up as the last of Quill fell to the earth. 

Heat exploded over the back of his neck, Peter’s instincts practically screaming in his ear to do something, to fight, or run, or move. He felt over-sensitized, his skin warming, then burning like an infected cut. 

Oh no. Oh _no._ Peter put a hand to his mouth as a sharp, involuntary gasp made his head spin. 

What about May? What about Ned, and MJ? Who was going to be there for them if not him? Who was going to protect them? He couldn’t— he couldn’t let this happen. He wasn’t ready for this, wasn’t ready to leave. He wasn't prepared to face up to... everything. 

Peter didn’t know what happened to murderers when they died. He wasn’t ready to learn. 

He looked up, saw the jagged land, the toxic sky, no May, no Ned, no MJ, and felt the last dredges of calm slip through his fingers. 

“M-Mr. Stark?” he said, quietly, stumbling towards his only hope, “I-I don’t feel so good...” 

“You’re alright, kid.” came the reply, quick and brusque and so soothing that Peter almost believed him—

—up until he tried to take another step, stumbled, and collapsed in the man’s arms. His skin burned viciously at the contact, but he clung on all the same, involuntary tears dripping from his eyes. 

“I-I dunno what’s happening—“ he breathed, burning, horribly burning, as his mentor eased him down, “I don’t...I don't wanna go, please, please, _I don’t wanna go, Mr. Stark—_ “ 

Mr. Stark looked down at him and didn't say anything. He just stared with a wordless kind of horror, like a sort of revelation. Like he was seeing who Peter truly was, after all this time. 

Peter had never told him about Ben; about how he’d essentially signed his uncle's death warrant by not doing what was right. He thought maybe his mentor always knew— after all, he kept a close enough watch on him, didn’t he? But now, looking into his eyes, the teenager knew this wasn’t the case. Even if by some miracle Mr. Stark could save him, he wouldn’t now. He shouldn’t. 

Peter quickly lost feeling in his feet, then his ankles, the paralyzing numbness crawling up his legs. He could feel cooling tear-trails from the corner of his eyes, could see dust clouds and rubble and the hazy sky above them. His throat closed up in an existential panic. He met his mentor's eyes, glimpsed an echo of his own terror, turned away. 

God, oh God, Peter wasn’t ready to die. But it had to be what he deserved. 

“I’m sorry.” he whispered, and felt himself collapse into nothing. 

An endless, permanent, sleep.


	6. With May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!!  
> Sorry to leave everybody hanging so long— I did NOT mean to end the fic with Peter's death. However, all chapters up until next year will take place before the war against Thanos, obviously— and may divert a bit from canon just because who likes just playing by the rules all the time?  
> Quick side-note: I am SO TIRED of seeing May dead in other fics, okay? Co-parenting is possible, everyone, and both Tony and May have valuable things to bring to the table when it comes to raising Peter. So there.  
> This chapter is devoted to May Parker because she's a badass and I love her.  
> Thank you all so much for reading, and as ever, suggestions are always open!

Tonight begins no differently than most of the (approximately 4,277) nights Peter has spent living with his Aunt May. She’d come in to tell him goodnight as he worked on his homework, insisted he not stay up too late and quickly kissed the top of his head, going out the door before he could protest to the childlike treatment. It wasn’t that he _truly_ minded, but some teenage stereotypes just had to be maintained, y'know? 

Regardless, Peter sat and stared at his English assignment a little longer, as if it could suddenly start telling him what he thought of Shakespeare’s Macbeth, in his own words. Then, he gave up, deciding to tentatively ask MJ how she’d answered it at lunch the next day. He’d be sure to toss an extra Cosmic Brownie in his lunch in case he needed to resort to bribery. Decided, he packed away his books and trudged down the hall to the bathroom. There, he brushed his teeth and cleaned his face, grimacing at the icy water. 

As Peter shut the door back to his own room, he reflexively glanced over to his suit, hanging just at the edge of his closet. Normally, he’d suit up and go out for patrol around now; however, after May found out about his not-so-well-kept-secret, she forbade him from going on patrol past twelve. Worse yet, she’d asked Mr. Stark to add a feature to Karen that shut down the suit at a set hour, like an alarm clock. He called it the Time-Out protocol. 

Peter had snarked back that he was developing something he liked to call the Old Geezer protocol, and to let him know if he wanted it installed. Tony had thumped him on the back of the head and that had been that. Unfortunately, the Time-Out protocol had stayed— meaning no more midnight patrols. Somehow, Tony and May (shockingly) agreed on something. 

As Peter lay on the bottom bunk, he knows that even now, he’s getting less sleep than ever. It was all because he hated his bunk beds. Or, well, that wasn’t exactly true. Peter liked his bunk beds in the light of day, when he and Ned lay over them, passing gummy worms and checking their Calculus answers. 

When he doesn’t like them is now, staring up at wooden beams and coiled metal springs, remembering that one kid from every sleepover who insisted his brother, or best friend, or cousin had been fast asleep when their bunk beds just gave out and fell on them. It was pretty rare to die from a bunk bed collapsing on you. In Peter’s case, it was nigh impossible— but dying isn’t the concern. What Peter spends his nights worried about is whether or not a collapsing bunk bed will send him into a panic attack. 

Peter had only panicked once in front of May. They’d been watching one of those survivors-tale movies about the Battle of New York. A Chutari warship has just collided with a building onscreen, the tinny screams of onlookers audible even over the narration. 

Peter had looked at that building and tasted dust in his mouth. His memories of the next ten minutes were blurry, in and out, like a child’s watercolor painting. What he did remember was his aunt’s eyes, horrified and filled with tears, begging him to tell her what was wrong. But he couldn’t, barely able to figure it out for himself. Just as she’d insisted she was calling Mr. Stark, Peter managed to take a long, shuddering breath and beg her not to. 

She’d gone for her phone and he’d shoved it away, curling up in her arms in a way he hadn’t since he was very small. But it worked— May held onto him and the thought of calling his mentor dissipated almost as soon as it began. 

Peter can’t lie— he cares about Mr. Stark. Of course he cares about him. The man gave him his suit, lets him collaborate with him in his workshop, had even (almost!) let Peter work on an Iron Man suit last week. He already owes him so much. But these days, the days after Adrian Toomes had been locked away, it felt more like that tentative bond was being tested. 

Peter Parker isn’t some charity case. He doesn’t want the only times he contacts Mr. Stark to be when he’s hurt, or having a panic attack or just so overwhelmed by this new state of normalcy that he doesn’t know what to do. Peter had once known kids who did that, kids so desperate for attention that they only ever complained, hopefully seeking out reassurance in people (usually him) who honestly got tired of constantly giving it. Peter was not going to become one of those kids. Mr. Stark didn’t constantly need to be checking up on him, waiting for him to break. 

So, when nights like these come up, Peter figures he can handle it by himself. But after another half-hour of trying to convince himself that his bunk beds are stable— he’d checked only two days ago, they couldn’t have shifted in that time— he finally slips out of bed, strolling into the kitchen for some water. 

Peter definitely doesn’t expect for his aunt to be already in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a mug of cocoa between her hands, staring into the swirl of chocolate and milk as if it would offer the secrets of the universe. He takes a sharp breath, startled— May doesn’t set off his Spider-Sense, never has— and she looks up, eyes wide in the low lighting. Just like that, the conflicted look he’d seen in her face fades away and she greets him with a tired smile, gently pushing the opposite chair out with her foot. 

He sits, and there they stay. It’s probably one of the most relaxing silences they’ve had, in the past year. Peter is quietly aware that May is surveying him, likely seeing the dark exhaustion in his eyes, the anxious energy that he tries to hide by lightly tapping his fingers against the side of the table. He lets her, glancing up every so often to take in his own information. May looks as tired as he feels, almost defeated in a way that made his heart squeeze. He’s done this, he knows it. God, if he could have just one wish in the world, it would be to stop being such a burden on the few people who cared about him. His fingers tap faster. 

But then, just like that, he feels May’s hand rest over his, stopping the frenetic tapping with a light touch. He runs hot now, but her hands have always been cool. He glances into her eyes and feels himself melt in the safety of them. 

“Hey, tough guy,” she offers, softly, “Trouble sleeping?”

“A— a little.” he answers, “Did... did I wake you up?” 

“Oh, no,” May brushes it off, “I— well, I guess you could say I’m having a little bit of trouble sleeping myself. Do you want some cocoa?” 

Briefly, Peter considers that caffeine is most likely not the best idea at— he glances to the clock— 2:37 a.m, but even so, he’ll take a distraction. So, he nods, offering a quiet ‘thank you’ as his aunt stands up and grabs another packet of Swiss Miss. The gentle clatter around the kitchen is soothing to him, and he slumps against the table, keeping an eye on May. 

Back before, nights had always been he and May’s thing. One, or both of them, it seemed always had something to stress about and ended up pacing the apartment— he tries not to long too hard for their old apartment and everything it once had. Ben used to laugh about it, calling them a pair of “worry-magnets”, with one being inevitably drawn to the other, until they’d both ended up passed out on the couch the next morning. Sometimes, when it got really bad, Ben would join them and listen to their concerns, but he inevitably fell back asleep within ten minutes. 

Despite the light pang of grief he felt at the memory, Peter smiles down at the table, just as a mug of cocoa is gently slid towards him. 

“What’cha smiling about?” May asks, almost teasingly as she sat back down. 

“Just... us.” Peter says, not wanting to cause his aunt any more grief, “When we used to talk all night about all the stuff we were worried about.” 

He gently blows on his cocoa and glances up, only to find May smiling back, chin resting on one hand. 

“Oh yeah,” she remembers, the smile turning into a grin, “and then Ben’d try to talk us out of it, and end up snoring on the couch. He always sang that song from that movie, what was it?” 

“Hakuna Matata.” Peter replies, “But— but he only knew the chorus, so he’d just sing that.” 

“Oh God, yeah, over and over and over... and then he’d just fall back asleep.” May laughs, “Some help he was.” 

“It made us laugh, though.” Peter points out, sipping at his cocoa. 

“It sure did.” May nods. 

They fall back into silence and the guilt that wells in Peter’s chest is almost instant. He remembers the day May found out about his “extracurricular activity”— it had also been the day that she found out about everything. About the robber he didn’t stop. About how Ben Parker lay six feet under only because his own nephew put him there. He’d been hoarse by the end of that conversation, wrung out like an old towel, but May had taken one look at his guilt ridden face and decided that it couldn’t be true— that he couldn’t have killed Ben. He didn’t understand then, and still doesn’t, even now. 

“Sorry.” he finally offers, weakly, “For... for bringing it up.” 

May looks up at him, a spark of something in her eyes as her lips press into a firm line. 

“No.” she says, harshly, then dials it back, shaking her head, “No, no, no, don’t you do that. I told you then and I’m telling you now— Peter Parker, that was _not_ your fault. None of it. Do you understand me?” 

His memory is playing tricks on him now, the gunshot blending in with the shattering of concrete, the panic of seeing Ben bleeding with the panic of being unable to move. A hand cautiously drifts to his chest and Peter rests it there, only then feeling the thundering of his heart. His breath feed short, dry, like his throat was burning. He looks at May and sees her staring right back, asking him something, but the pressure of the blood in his ears is too loud and he can’t hear it. 

~~“I’ll kill you, and everybody you love.”~~

A shadow moves across the window behind May and Peter jolts, faintly hears the clatter of the chair as he stumbles back, hand pressed hard against his chest, hair flopping in his eyes, God, he can’t _breathe_ , he can’t— where’s May? He falls back and clings to the wall, actually clings to it, feeling his adhesion taking effect. His senses are swimming, they’re dialed up so loud, he can hear the baby two floors down as she wails from her crib, he can hear the humming of every single refrigerator on his floor, a car alarm going off somewhere, he can hear sneezing and snoring and indecent things and... and singing? 

“...It means no worries, for the rest of your days...” 

Peter manages to blink open his eyes and there’s May, a few feet away, on the floor. He tries to read her lips, still taking heaving breaths, and realizes, faintly that it’s her, singing. Shivering all over, and raw from all the conflicting input, Peter focuses on his aunt, on her soft, raspy words as she sings the chorus, again and again and again as he tries to self-soothe, holding his breath for five seconds then releasing it, like clockwork. Gradually, his hand unsticks from the wall. A few seconds later, he slides to the floor, feeling his heart starting to slow. There’s a shakiness in his breathing now, one he weakly tries to control, but without much success. Through it all, May keeps singing, always keeping his eyes, perfectly calm. 

Finally, his eyes close. May comes to the end of what must have been her fiftieth verse and then they fall into silence. A few minutes pass. Peter is mostly okay— only his hands are still trembling— and he keeps his mind deceptively blank to avoid a repeat incident. 

“Hey,” May finally offers, quietly, “Is touch okay, Peter?” 

His response is to inch his way across the floor, closer to her. May waits until he stops, then slowly, gingerly reaches up to comb her hand through his hair. After a minute, Peter sinks against her with a sigh, and after another, she pulled her free arm around his shoulders. 

“It’s okay,” she murmurs, softly, “It’s okay, it’s okay now. You’re alright.” 

Peter doesn’t know how confident he is in that statement, but decides to believe it, for May’s sake. He lies his head on her shoulder and tries not to be overwhelmed by the love he feels for her. She hadn’t even been his family by blood, and yet, now, she’s the only family he has. Sure, Mr. Stark always tells him that he’s got support at the complex, support from him, but May? May is his world. His everything. He squeezes his arms around her— not too tightly, of course— feeling more comfortable than he thinks he deserves. Ah, well. He’s just happened to be lucky enough to be placed in the care of an angel. 

May huffs a laugh as Peter tucks himself against her shoulder. 

“I’m gonna have that freaking song stuck in my head all this week.” she gripes, then adds, quieter, “It _is_ kinda catchy though.” 

Peter can’t help a smile, or the yawn that follows it. 

“Tired?” May asks, warmly. 

“Mmhm.” Peter mumbles into her shoulder. 

“Alright, well I definitely don’t want you falling asleep on the floor.” May points out, gently extracting herself from Peter’s grip, “C’mon, up you get.” 

Peter manages to stand with only a soft protest. May puts her arm around him again once he’s standing, gently leading him back towards his room. But it only takes one look at the bunk beds, now bathed in shadow, for Peter to stop. 

“What’s up?” May prompts. 

“I... can I sleep on the couch?” Peter asks, quietly. 

Peter doesn’t know whether it‘s the lateness of the hour or just his aunt’s own natural goodness that has them turning around and heading back for the couch within seconds, but he’s grateful nonetheless. He lies down once she gets him there, but before he can reach for the quilt tucked over the back of the couch, May is unfolding it and tucking it carefully around him. She vanishes for a few moments afterwards, but soon returns with his pillow and a cold water bottle. The water is placed on the coffee table and, after carefully tucking the pillow behind his head, May presses a kiss against Peter’s forehead. 

“Sleep well, tough guy. Call if you need me.” 

Peter hums, content, all the world feeling soft at the edges as he nudges underneath the covers. It’s only when he hears the scuff of bare feet on the kitchen tile that he sits up, quickly. 

“May?”

She stops immediately, leaning back around the wall, head tilted. Peter feels a faint flush crawling up the back of his neck, but speaks regardless. 

“I love you.” 

The smile that lights up his aunt’s face is entirely worth it, Peter decides. 

“I love you too, Peter. Always.”

Peter eases back against his pillow, chest unusually warm, but not in an unpleasant way. Sure, he has plenty of people in his corner. He has Ned, and MJ and Mr. Stark and Happy. He has the might of the Avengers (or at least, some of them) behind him. But, when it really comes down to it, that isn’t the most important thing. Because, at the end of the day, he’s got May. His brave, smart, selfless aunt, the aunt who’d do anything for him. 

The woman he sees as his mother. 

Peter is lucky in a lot of ways— getting superpowers, getting a suit, so far avoiding death, but truthfully, he is luckiest for having May as his aunt. 

And with that, wrapped in a quilt and surrounded by a love he can’t exactly understand, Peter finally falls asleep.


	7. In the Compound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is sick, and he can’t find Mr. Stark. Fearing the worst, he decides an expedition is in order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, I return to this fic!!   
> This is such a self-soother for me to write— being as my two favorite things are sleep and Peter Parker and as such, I will continue to update this, even at no discernible schedule! Ideas for new chapters are always open and thank you very much for reading!

Peter was in bed. 

But not... his bed, no, this bed was much bigger than his. It felt unfamiliar, and maybe even too soft, like a giant cloud. Peter blinked, confusedly, starting to get a fuzzy outline of the room, a wide window to his left and a chair sitting alongside the bed to his right. It was quiet, too, which was equally unnerving. New York wasn’t supposed to be quiet. 

Peter was starting to get one of those bad feelings, his Spidey-sense humming uneasily. There was something he was supposed to do, but he couldn’t remember what. That unpleasantness was combined with a feeling of suffocating heat— Peter felt like he was being cooked, rolling over uncomfortably until the sheets cooled again. He rubbed at his eyes, frustratedly— why couldn’t he focus? 

Peter pushed himself up on his arms, wincing as a jolt of soreness went through him. He wondered if he’d gotten hurt while out on patrol, and then couldn’t recall if he’d even gone on patrol lately to begin with. Blearily attempting another look around the room, Peter finally noticed a pair of sunglasses sitting innocuously on the nightstand. 

Peter very abruptly felt like he’d just been dumped in ice water. 

Mr. Stark. 

Those were his sunglasses, they had to be. But where was he? 

Peter tried to ignore the barrage of unpleasant thoughts the previous then brought on— ‘he’s probably dead somewhere’, ‘it’s all your fault’, ‘you never said goodbye’ But his breathing was starting to catch, all the same. He _had_ to find Mr. Stark. 

Quickly, Peter scrambled out of bed, leapt to his feet— and very nearly toppled over, only saving himself by grabbing onto the mattress. He noted a few things, trying to force his legs to corporate. One, he was still boiling hot, and covered in sweat— ugh, that was gross. Two, his head was not a fan of sudden movements at the moment, as a flare of pain centralized between his temples. Third, Peter was in nothing but his boxers— which only made his surface temperature ratchet up a bit more as a flush started crawling up his neck. 

Taking another minute to nurse his head, Peter considered his plan of action. His first objective was to find clothes. His second objective was to find Mr. Stark. Neither seemed too difficult. So, once he felt up to it, Peter opened his eyes again and glanced around, quickly noticing a closet against the far wall. 

Slowly, gingerly, Peter edged his way towards the closet, gradually taking pressure off the mattress until he managed to stumble the few steps to the closet door. Wrenching it open, he noted his suit, neatly tucked up on a hanger. Peter had dressed in the suit in nearly any condition— rain, heat, or snow— so managing to get it on was not as hard as it could have been, even if his head still protested any rough movement. 

Looking into the otherwise-empty closet, he realized with a blank panic that his mask was nowhere in sight. Without his mask, he couldn’t have Karen. But then, did he really need Karen right now? Who was to say she wouldn’t just prompt him to get back in bed? She’d undoubtably do a full-body scan of him and activate some Training-Wheels protocol thing with an embarrassing name until one of the adults arrived to subdue him. 

Maybe that person would be Mr. Stark. Or maybe it wouldn’t. Either way, Peter had to find the man himself. He managed to get to the door without too much difficulty, even if he now considered that perhaps a skintight spandex suit had not been his best choice when he felt this miserably hot. Peter glanced up and down the hall, seeing no one else between him and the elevator. 

The lab. The lab would be a good place to start. 

However, the second he stepped out the door, another voice was speaking all around him, unbearably loud, like knives driving into his ears.

“Mr. Parker, please return to your room—“ 

“No, no, no, Friday, shh!” Peter protested, gloved hands pressing to cover his ears. 

He sank down to one knee with a soft groan, and FRIDAY’s sensors must have picked up on his evident distress, because when she spoke again, her volume had been lowered considerably. 

“My apologies, Mr. Parker. However, I must ask that you remain in your room. Your internal temperature was last recorded at 102.7, and bed rest is currently advised by Dr. Helen Cho. 

Gritting his teeth, Peter managed to get back up. A fever that high would definitely explain why he felt like garbage. But, Peter was still having trouble remembering how he’d gotten here at all. Had he been sick when he showed up? Had Mr. Stark been there? He could kind of remember getting in through the balcony, maybe some muffled voices, but that was it. 

“Friday,” he croaked out, still leaned in the doorway, “Where’s Mr. Stark?” 

But Friday didn’t answer. Peter got a quite different response a second later as all of the internal lights in the compound turned an unnerving red. FRIDAY’s voice echoed through the compound, and Peter nearly shouted, clapping his hands back against his ears— she was back to full volume. 

“All Avengers, report to Quinjet 2 immediately for a Level 3 briefing. I repeat, _all_ Avengers, report to Quinjet 2 immediately for a Level 3 briefing.” 

“Ow, ow, ow...” Peter winced, only hesitantly taking his hands away once the lights moved back to their normal shade. His head was practically buzzing now, his danger sense having cranked up a few unnecessary levels. 

Still, Peter had heard the alert. Level 3 was relatively benign on the threat scale (which went from one to eleven) however, Friday had been alerting the team to more of them lately, likely in a further effort to get them to coalesce as a single team again. If Peter remembered correctly, Captain Rogers had been the one to request the change, and after a day or so, Mr. Stark had acquiesced. 

Peter began to walk down the hall, muscles throbbing in protest. The alert had insisted that all Avengers were to be present, and he was a part of that category now. Besides, that likely meant that Mr. Stark would be there too.

Assuming this was even real. Assuming this wasn’t some kind of dream he’d built up. But then, Peter’s traitorous mind supplied, that would be the perfect explanation, wouldn’t it? 

The doors came open and Peter stepped into the elevator, leaning back and resting his head on the cold metal. 

Of course this was a dream. He felt so awful, like when he’d faded, so who was to say he hadn’t? Who was to say he wasn’t already dead? Peter whimpered, pathetically, at the thought before he covered his mouth— he didn’t want to die, not again. He had to find Mr. Stark. Mr. Stark would help him. 

And even if he couldn’t... well, at least he’d have someone to hold on to. 

Peter halfheartedly scrubbed at his burning eyes as the elevator doors came open outside, near the Quinjet landing pad. The cold wind whipped past him, making his eyes sting all the more, but it did feel kind of nice, too, offsetting the burning heat that was suffocating him in the suit. 

Being as all of this wasn’t real, Peter didn’t pay too much mind to where he was going, stumbling towards the Quinjet with singular intent, and ignoring anyone he happened to run into along the way. Snippets of words followed him, but nothing stuck for long. 

“—kid doing here?” 

“—sick, from what I heard—“ 

Finally, just as he managed to make it to the loading ramp with most of his muscles aching, a hand clapped down on his shoulder. The hand was metal and cold, and should’ve been terrifying, aside from the fact that it felt kind of amazing against his fevered skin. Peter turned around dazedly, only to find Sargent Barnes frowning at him. Once they met eyes, the sargent only shook his head. 

“God, I thought I was done with this shit.” he muttered under his breath, then turned over one shoulder, “Steve! The spider-kid’s wrecked, he’s not coming!” 

No. Oh no, no, no. Peter had to go. If he didn’t, then Mr. Stark would leave him. If he didn’t, then he’d die alone. So, Peter reached up and grabbed Barnes’ hand in his own, bodily tearing it off him and stumbling back, head spinning. The soldier looked somewhat confused at his actions, but waved his other hand, before Peter realized that Captain Rogers was coming over, too. They were ganging up on him. 

Breathing harshly, Peter raised his hands, curling them into fists. He wasn’t going down without a fight. 

Captain Rogers looked him up and down. 

“I mean...” he trailed off, with a shrug, “He’s a little roughed up, sure, but I think the kid’s got it in him. Right, Peter?” 

Sargent Barnes made a brief face that looked a lot like he’d just bitten into a lemon, then turned a glare on Steve, who returned it with a raised eyebrow. 

“You got something to say?”

“You’re a dumbass.” 

“Thanks, pal.” 

They were distracted. And if they were distracted, that meant Peter had the upper hand. They weren’t real, either, which meant he was really gonna have to knock their lights out. The people in his dreams tended to be a lot stronger than they were in real life. Thus, Peter drew back a fist and made to lunge— only to find his way blocked by another person. 

“Whoa, hey, hey—“ Mr. Wilson dissuaded, pushing up his goggles, “Not like I haven’t wanted to punch Barnes’ lights out, but that isn’t exactly your MO, kid.” 

God, he sounded so _real_. They all did. But they weren’t. They just wanted to trick him, they wanted to keep him away from Mr. Stark. They wanted to let him die alone. 

“Leave me alone!” Peter finally burst out, even as his head screamed in pain, shoving Mr. Wilson backwards, “You aren’t real!” 

The man stumbled a few feet back, but Captain Rogers steadied him, both he and Sargent Barnes stepping around either side. 

“Not real?” Captain Rogers repeated, crossing over and hesitantly placing his hand on Peter’s forehead. 

Peter sank down his knees, a miserable cry caught in the back of his throat. He wasn’t gonna get past them. Everything ached, his muscles all taut, the headache having spread behind his eyes. He curled into himself, somehow shivering, even though it felt like he’d been locked in a sauna. 

“I’m a dumbass.” said Captain Rogers, taking his hand away. 

“ _Thank you._ ” Sargent Barnes scoffed, peering around his shoulder. 

“Said one dumbass to the other.” Mr. Wilson cut in, before he was punched in the arm. 

“Hey, shut up.” Captain Rogers waved a hand, his steely gaze turning back to Peter, “Geez, what‘d you even get up for, lookin’ like this?” 

Well... at least they were being nice. That had to mean he was dying soon. Peter definitely felt that way, his hands feeling like they’d glued themselves over his ears, his temples feeling heavy and magnetized. 

“I... Mr. Stark...” he forced out, voice rasping, “I... I want...” 

Captain Rogers was looking at him differently now, something kind of sad hidden in his eyes. 

“Okay, son.” he agreed, gently, “Okay. Buck, woul’ja—“ 

“—Sam can do it.” Sargent Barnes passed it on, quickly. 

“Whatever, man.” Mr. Wilson agreed, before jogging off back towards the compound doors. 

Peter felt awful, even as both of the other men knelt alongside him. He tried once again to curl his knees closer to his chest, but failed when his muscles violently protested the action. Still, he tucked his head down against his chest, unwilling to let either of them see the tears that had once again started to burn at the corners of his eyes. He shuddered, violently, able to sense all of it, the hum of the Quinjet, the low murmuring of Rogers and Barnes, the clamor already ensuing onboard as people evidently fought for seats, the rhythmic thud of one, no two pairs of shoes on the concrete. 

Wait, two pairs of shoes? 

“Oh my God.” came a very familiar voice, a calloused hand moving to cup his chin and lift his head. 

Peter opened his eyes to Tony Stark, just as he managed to ease onto his knees with a grimace. 

“Pete, buddy, you’re supposed to be in bed.” he spoke, lowly, “What in the hell are you doing out here, huh?” 

All Peter could do in response was uncurl his arms and shakily hold them out. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. 

“Aw, jeez.” Mr. Stark muttered, even sounding a little embarrassed, before he managed to scoot over— Peter instantly latching onto him. 

His hold was reciprocated, if a little hesitantly. But by then, Peter had already tucked his head into his mentor’s shoulder, taking a moment to finally relax. He was safe. This was safe. He’d found Mr. Stark, just like he’d wanted. 

And, hesitantly peering up to check his hands, Peter was slightly stunned to find that he wasn’t fading. 

“I’m not gonna die...?” he mumbled, almost to himself. 

Still, those words led to Mr. Stark pulling back, whipping off his sunglasses to stare Peter dead in the face. 

“Wha— you— _oh_.” he cut off, a sort of understanding starting to take shape.

In the next moment, he’d leaned forward again in a real embrace, one arm around Peter’s back, and the other, after a moment of deliberation, settling into his hair. 

“No, kiddo.” he spoke, softly, “You’re not gonna die. You’re not going anywhere.” 

Peter buried his head back into his mentor’s shoulder and finally sniffled, an unwanted tear spilling from one eye. He wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t. Mr. Stark wouldn’t lie to him, and besides— he knew what dying had felt like. Similar as this was, it wasn’t the same. He was really and truly okay. 

He was okay. 

“Uh...” Captain Rogers cut in, a bit awkwardly. 

“Go ahead, Cap.” Mr. Stark replied, not even turning to look, “I think I can miss out on today’s little field trip.” 

“Sure thing.” the other man agreed, after a moment. 

All three sets of footsteps echoed up the loading ramp to the Quinjet before one set stopped. 

“Take care of him, Tony.” 

There was no verbal response given, but Peter imagined one had been received nonetheless, as the singular set of footsteps continued up the ramp. 

“Here, c’mon,” Mr. Stark offered, as the ramp started retracting, “Let’s get you inside before this mammoth takes off, your super-hearing will probably thank us.” 

Peter did manage to follow, if a little clumsily, behind the billionaire until they got inside. He still clung to his side, Mr. Stark having kept a loose arm around his back. Outside, the Quinjet took off with a dull roar. 

“Alright, how are we gonna do this?” his mentor muttered to himself, “‘cause something’s telling me I’m gonna be a stand-in for a pillow for the foreseeable future.” 

After another moment of thought, Mr. Stark finally led them both down the hall and around a couple corners, until they emerged in the dark-paneled living room. Once there, Peter was gently eased down into a chair with a “gimme a second, kiddo.” 

Part of the sectional couch jutted out, almost like a tiny bed, and it was this part that was focused on, Mr. Stark grabbing a couple pillows and, after a moment of diliberation, tucking them along the arm of the couch, like a buffer. He lifted the ottoman and withdrew a few blankets of varying materials— some hand-knit, others made of a thick and likely expensive furry material. Some went to covering the seat itself, and some were left within an arm’s reach. 

After a minute more of this, Mr. Stark came back over and more or less hoisted Peter up, grunting slightly at the strain as he supported him over to the couch. Peter collapsed back down, gratefully, even if he did kick off the blanket his mentor attempted to drape over him. 

“Fine, have it your way.” the other man shrugged, taking a seat alongside him and looking up, “FRIDAY, ask Mrs. Stark if she would mind bringing up today’s pressing documents to the living room?” 

“Yes, sir.” the AI returns, and after a brief moment, continues, “She says she’ll do so with the expected payment of a kiss.” 

“Tell her she can have more than— uh, never mind.” Mr. Stark cut off, abruptly, as Peter grimaced in his direction. 

Once Friday shut off, Peter made his move, not-so-stealthily scooting across the couch until he was to a point where he could lean against his mentor in relative comfort. 

“May did warn me you’re an octopus when you get sick.” his voice came, softly, “Guess I shoulda taken her word for it, huh?” 

Peter only sighed, lowly, head easing over to rest against his shoulder. It wasn’t perfect. The suit was still on and uncomfortably warm to boot. His head and muscles were still aching, without too much relief. But, Peter had something that topped medicine or a fresh pair of sheets— he felt secure. 

He wasn’t gonna die. He was here, in the compound. He was alive and so were those he loved. All was well. 

“...thanks, Tony.” he mumbled, sleepily, letting his eyes slipped shut. 

“Oh my God,” muttered Tony, disbelievingly, “ _Finally_.” 

As he felt himself falling deeper into a comforting oblivion, Peter figured it _had_ been a long time coming.


End file.
